


Teller of Tales

by Judayre



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judayre/pseuds/Judayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is untried when Thorin's call comes. There is nothing shameful about it; he is also young, and their home in the Ered Luin is no place to create ballads and legends. His brothers tell him that there will be time. They always assure him of that, and then go about their own business and keep him over protected behind stout walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teller of Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Dwarves - as Diaspora Jewish Vikings - should have a strong sense of the difference between a scribe (who write accounts, laws, and contracts) and a scop (who writes things like Beowulf).
> 
> Slight slashing, because I tend to write in response to things and the fic this started as a reply to had the pairing in it. It originally went all the way to Moria, but well... I hate killing characters, so....
> 
> Also, I don't usually write in the present tense. I have no idea why I did. But I think it works. I think?

He is untried when Thorin's call comes. There is nothing shameful about it; he is also young, and their home in the Ered Luin is no place to create ballads and legends. His brothers tell him that there will be time. They always assure him of that, and then go about their own business and keep him over protected behind stout walls.

Thorin is glad of him, though, when he presents himself. A story not told is one forgotten, and this is a story Thorin wants to live forever. He is tested first, reciting legends and tales that are a large part of his learning. It is a long test, his recitations taking hours as the heir of Durin closes his eyes and listens. Finally he says "enough." Just the one word, but it is all that is needed.

Ori is ecstatic to be found worthy and rushes home to tell his brothers and start packing. Such is his gift of memory and observation that even through his euphoria he sees their faces pale with terror. Before another day is out, both of his brothers have offered their support as well.

The party at the Halfling's home is truly wonderful, all color and sound. Ori doesn't know where to rest his eyes, so they keep jumping from one comrade to another, drinking in details to write down later. For he needs a good hand as much as a fine memory, and he has several notebooks in his pack where he can record detail and work out the forms of verses, the proper metaphors, the appropriate references to old tales.

And there is certainly much to call to mind his old tales. His eyes keep stealing to Balin and Dwalin, face lighting at what he knows of the old warriors and their history. And then there are Fíli and Kíli, sister-sons of their king-in-exile. He is surrounded by such greatness and their task is so important. Despite the continued grumbling of his oldest brother that he could still walk away and no shame to him, how could he give up the chance to be the one to record this quest?

"Scop," Thorin says to him late in the night, and he straightens with pride to be called by the title. "If we meet with outsiders, we will say we have business in Rohan. I will call you my scribe, for what need does a band of tinkers have for a scop?" The drooping of his shoulders must have been seen, for there is a strong hand rested on one. "Your true worth is known. I would not ask this if it were not for our safe passage."

Ori nods unhappy agreement. He would do anything to be part of this.

In the first days of the journey he takes copious notes on the Company. He sketches each of them and records names and ties, including his own distant, muddied ties to Durin's line. He listens to the stories they tell and writes about the deeds each of them have accomplished. Here he feels inadequate, as he has no accomplishments of his own, and his brother Nori has none that he should mention in a tale such as this.

None that he should mention, but that doesn't mean that they are unknown. Indeed, Dwalin often has his eyes on the middle brother with suspicion. Their first night on the road, he comments quite loudly that he will keep his pack close at his side while he sleeps. Nori's face burns with the embarrassment of it, and he keeps to his brothers in the following days.

Ori does not write these things down, but his memory was what had first been noted by the traveling minstrels in Ered Luin. He, too, stays by his brothers' sides to show support. He is the only one who will remember the humiliation in Nori's eyes.  
The Halfling is an anomaly to him, all ties and stories that are unfamiliar. How can he be placed in a Dwarf saga, when Baggins and Took mean nothing? Ori fills pages on Bilbo, seeking the details he already knows about the others just by their names. Skillful verses will be needed to explain their burglar, and he hopes he is up to the task.

He is not an accomplished fighter, but his slingshot serves him well against the Trolls. It is strange to be a record keeper, he decides, eyes everywhere in the battle. His brothers come to his aid more than once, as his eyes catch on the deeds of warriors and royalty around him.

And then the ignoble finish to the battle, the burglar being used against them. The whole thing will require much delicacy, he decides. Clever wordplay replacing what Bilbo actually said, because even as a ruse, parasites have no place in an epic tale. Nor does his brother hiding the Troll's stolen treasure.

Thorin orders them all to sleep early at Rivendell, because they plan to steal away in the night. Ori knows he should obey, but there is too much to think about. His pen works furiously to write out the details before they grow weak. Nearby, Thorin sits. One leg is drawn up close to his body and he stares out the windows, looking east. Toward the Misty Mountains. And Erebor. 

This, too, makes it into Ori's notes.

When Thorin speaks, Ori is not sure it is meant for him. "Perhaps he is right and all of this is folly."

He turns pages in his notebook, and quietly begins to read the stuttering beginnings he has tried for their battle against the Warg mounted Orcs. Thorin turns to him, a smiled charmed from his lips at a description of Fíli's fury and Kíli's prowess with the bow.

The leader moves closer, voice low so it does not disturb the others. "Tell me truly, scop, for you know enough stories to see the shape of them. Are we doing what is right and true and good? Or am I leading you through pride to disaster?"

Ori has no time to breathe in wonder at the fact that he is being asked for advice as if he were an elder or a great general. "Why have you undertaken this quest?" he asks.

The answer comes without hesitation. "To retake our home."

"Then whatever happens, we will be remembered with honor. This is a quest out of love of our people, not one of greed. As long as that remains true, you will not lead us wrong."

They are the right words. They are true of all he knows of stories, and they bring peace to his king's eyes. 

They remain awake, and Thorin offers critique of his unpolished verses. Ori, embarrassed, dares him to do better, and their quiet laughter keeps them awake until it is time to rouse the others and be on their way. His notes include several variations on phrasing that passed innocently from Thorin's lips but can be polished as bright as the Arkenstone.

When he next has time to write, it's amazing that he still has his notebooks. He flutters the pages to make sure they're dry and unstained. Dwalin laughs at him and Nori nearly punches him in the face. Only Dori and Ori's hands on his shoulders hold him back. 

Dwalin sneers and asks what point Ori and his scribbling have for the quest. This time both of his brothers glare daggers at the old warrior, while Ori rocks back on his heels. The only other that Dwalin has questioned this openly - damn his fine memory for knowing this as a certainty - is the burglar.

He glances over at the burglar, sitting next to Thorin and fussing over him. Thorin catches his eye, raises a brow, and says "well?"

Ori's eyes widen. He is being asked to prove his worth in front of everyone. No other has had to do that, not even after Fíli and Kíli allowed Trolls to steal the ponies.

Very well. His eyes harden and he raises his chin. He has been well trained, even if he is untried in battle. His eyes turn to Dwalin, and he begins to tell of Azanulbizar and the warrior's great deeds there. His defiance melts into the story, voice half chanting the verses written to the glory of war and Dwarf strength.

Dwalin's eyes are wide by the time he finishes. With both brothers flanking him, Ori demands to know if he had proven himself. He can't remember seeing the old warrior tongue tied before, and knows it will be something he can hug close in the face of any future time he is questioned.

They are searched when the Elves capture them, everything taken and hidden away as they are thrown in cells. Ori has ample time to be glad he does not write in Westron. Even when the language is, the letters are not. He begs Bilbo to let Thorin know it. He has not betrayed them to their enemy.

Bilbo returns with words of assurance. He also brings an extra tunic, with the message "He said you were the most delicate and probably feeling the cold." Ori thinks at first that it must be from Dori, mother hen that he is, but the size of it tells a different story. Dwalin. Dwalin is thinking of him.

There is little to do but wait. They are there for days, but only Bilbo can move around and he is trying so hard to get them out. Ori can't wait until he does. His fingers itch for his pens, as all he has to keep himself busy is thinking of the tale. He hums to himself and works phrases except when the jailers bring his food. He is quiet then, and shivering like a useless prisoner. He is aware enough of the passage of time that he can hide Dwalin's tunic and the shivering is real.

The barrels, he decides, will be in the story, but the amount of throwing up that happens when they are finally released can be easily left out. He hugs his notebooks, checking them for damage, and while the others interact with the Men of Laketown, he writes everything he has been working on, all the notes about Mirkwood and cadences he made up to keep himself busy in the Elf prison.

They are on the Mountain at last, searching for the secret door. Ori's brothers sit next to him, both of them insisting he eat. He smiles at them and sets his books aside for supper. They, alone of the group, haven't asked to hear his notes, and they have been the ones to put off the others. Ori is glad that they are with him, and feels comfortable enough around their shared fire to lean against Dori, dear mother hen that he is, and listen to chatter around the other fires.

He closes his eyes, ears focusing better that way, and doesn't open them until Nori speaks.

"He's staring again. I thought we were finished with that."

Ori looks where his brother is and sees Dwalin, his eyes on their fire. He's not sure what either of his brothers would do if he pointed out that the one Dwalin's eyes have stopped on is him. He's caught that a number of times since leaving Mirkwood. He has no idea what it means, so he keeps it a secret.

They all insist that he stay up at the gate. For what is a story if the chronicler dies before finishing it? And a story not told is one that is forgotten. So, to placate them all, Ori remains behind. His brothers make sure he has mail. After everyone else leaves, Dwalin puts a sword in his hands and a kiss on his lips, disappearing before he has a chance to come out of shock.

He watches the battle from above, picking out familiar figures. He holds his breath when his brothers get in fights, only releasing it when they come out of it safely alive. He knows he needs to watch the others - and he does! - but his eyes are drawn again and again to the only family he has. They came because of him, and now they are in danger while he is safe.

He nearly misses the entrance of the Orcs and the Eagles. And is that Beorn? Five armies and a skin changer, and how is all of this supposed to fit into a tale? It hardly fits in his brain while he watches it.

And then.

It isn't supposed to end this way. Ori kneels before the three slabs, tears on his cheeks, and sings verses in praise of the line of Durin. Hearing sobs behind him, he sings of the mighty deeds of Thorin Oakenshield, and his own verses in praise of Fíli and Kíli.

And no matter what he is later told, he never stops singing their tale. Because a story untold is one that is forgotten, and he wants this story to live forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Not part of my other fic, but this is my basic head canon for Ori, so this is what he's up to in that one as well.


End file.
